Re: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Signups!]
08-08-2011, 12:58 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
Username: MrGuy
Name: Nick Ringer
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: #00009C
Biography:
Description: Slightly below-average height, and about twenty pounds underweight. Wears sunglasses, a light blue jacket, dark blue gloves and combat boots, and a gray jumpsuit. Blond, unkempt hair, cut just short enough that it doesn't fall over his eyes.
Is cynical and paranoid, often depressed. Is willing to do anything, to anyone, to keep afloat, but feels a crushing sense of regret nearly any time he does so.
Items/Abilities: Has a sawed-off shotgun, a lead pipe, and a pistol. Is of somewhat above-average intelligence.
Username: MrGuy
Name: Nick Ringer
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: #00009C
Biography:
SpoilerShow
The announcer's voice boomed over the P.A. system. "Welcome, one and all, to another exciting episode of Gang Warfare, the fabulous show where four teams of convicts are given a chance at $10,000 and their freedom apiece-- as well as our special bonus prize today, a Garrison K4 hovercycle!"
Nick Ringer sighed as he grabbed the regulation pistol placed at his side. Around him, the other Calrissian Street Slashers were doing mostly the same, though some of them were stumbling or hesitant. He shook his head at being stuck with these morons; if you picked any ten, six would be hopped up on Quad, two would have their brains blasted out by Solare, and one would be a political prisoner with no combat experience (though, since those were randomly parceled out to each team at the beginning, Nick supposed that wasn't too much of a disadvantage).
Already they were scattering about like idiots, desperately searching for supplies. He was sure by now that the Lightning Rods already had a crude fort made out of dumpsters, and were putting together strike squads. Without Old Johnny to lead them, his team was as good as dead. But if they're useless anyway, it doesn't matter if my team lives. If I can survive, I win no matter how many of those morons bite the dust.
Nick scanned the surrounding area. Gun shop. Good selection, but anyone who comes in has access too-- way too risky. Grocery store... good amount of supplies, and I could probably get a makeshift bunker going, plus nobody expects someone to hide out there-- they'll probably only look after going everywhere else. He snatched up a pipe from the corner of the filthy alleyway, propping it up on his left shoulder, and moved out.
---------------------------------------------------
It hadn't always been this way. The Slashers, when they first started, were at the top of their game. Specifically, Old Johnny was the guy who invented the formula for Quad, so long ago now that nobody remembered exactly when; they do know that about three years later, he came up with the less intense Solare, and both were huge hits. Soon enough, half of Fort Kennings was hooked on either, or both, from the poorest to the richest; which meant it was little trouble for him to find people to pull off whatever he wanted done for one more hit. He got together three old friends-- Nick included-- as planners.
The drug-fueled masses were, in essence, an army of berserkers, and the tactics and planning of the five at the top ensured a string of successful operations. Then Old Johnny died. There were lots of theories; Nick subscribed to the most popular one, that the Ion Brigade that did it, given the specific pattern of burn marks, but it was too late to check the energy signature of the gun that did Johnny in, so there was no way to be sure.
Too late for a lot of things, Nick thought as he ducked into the cereal aisle, barely avoiding the blast of the grenade. He dropped to the floor and yanked the shotgun out of the third Blaster Hood's cold hands, then snuck back up to the bakery before jumping out and shooting the fourth one in the face, jumping back to avoid one last explosion that luckily didn't happen. He scooped up the remaining two grenades from the corpse and scowled.
It was too late for Nick to quit, at the time. Five years was the minimum period that would qualify as vagrancy; he'd been in the Slashers for seven when Johnny bit the dust. Thus, applying for a job was out, as he'd be arrested; turning himself in, while admirable, would get him arrested; and joining another gang was a very risky proposition, as nobody could ever really trust him to be loyal, something which he couldn't very well fault them for; besides, the same situation would surely crop up with them, eventually. Any road he took led to being caught, and given that this stupid goddamn game show had been determined cheaper than actually having prisons, any road led to his probable death to boot.
In fact, his death was almost certain. The firefight with the Hoods had gotten him wounded, and he was bleeding considerably. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an Ion Brigadier walking outside.
Those bastards got me trapped in this life. If I stay holed up like this, I'll just bleed out, and I'll never get payback. Time to go on the offensive.
---------------------------------------------------
Something that Gang Warfare hadn't done for three seasons was tell the viewers something the contestants didn't know; for the most part, all the commentary was irrelevant to any given maneuver's success. However, Jim K. decided that now was the time to say something to the viewers at home, but not over the P.A.
"Now, see that guy in the green jacket coming up? Astute viewers will notice that he's actually Nick, a Calrissian Street Slasher. Couple of those wounds were self-inflicted; though what he's planning to do by infiltrating the enemy's base is anyone's guess--"
The disguised Slasher snuck into the very corner of the warehouse they were currently holed up in. Twenty-six members of the Ion Brigade, all clustered in one place. He pressed down on the grenades in his pocket for five seconds; they began dutifully beeping, to inform him they were now live. He slowly walked to the center of the stronghold, and dropped them on the ground. Then he ran.
Five. Four. Three. Two...
A massive blast engulfed the bunker, killing fifteen people instantly and severely injuring the remaining eleven; in addition, the inventory flung every which way managed to crush three who were patrolling for intruders.
"Amazing! That suicide play, by the way, has taken all but fourteen of the Ion Brigade out of the game, and there's not any signal from Nick's tracker whatsoever, nor any visible remains-- folks, I think we have a complete vaporization!"
Nobody seemed to notice that despite Nick being on the outskirts of the blast radius, he was the only victim that left no trace upon death.
Nick Ringer sighed as he grabbed the regulation pistol placed at his side. Around him, the other Calrissian Street Slashers were doing mostly the same, though some of them were stumbling or hesitant. He shook his head at being stuck with these morons; if you picked any ten, six would be hopped up on Quad, two would have their brains blasted out by Solare, and one would be a political prisoner with no combat experience (though, since those were randomly parceled out to each team at the beginning, Nick supposed that wasn't too much of a disadvantage).
Already they were scattering about like idiots, desperately searching for supplies. He was sure by now that the Lightning Rods already had a crude fort made out of dumpsters, and were putting together strike squads. Without Old Johnny to lead them, his team was as good as dead. But if they're useless anyway, it doesn't matter if my team lives. If I can survive, I win no matter how many of those morons bite the dust.
Nick scanned the surrounding area. Gun shop. Good selection, but anyone who comes in has access too-- way too risky. Grocery store... good amount of supplies, and I could probably get a makeshift bunker going, plus nobody expects someone to hide out there-- they'll probably only look after going everywhere else. He snatched up a pipe from the corner of the filthy alleyway, propping it up on his left shoulder, and moved out.
---------------------------------------------------
It hadn't always been this way. The Slashers, when they first started, were at the top of their game. Specifically, Old Johnny was the guy who invented the formula for Quad, so long ago now that nobody remembered exactly when; they do know that about three years later, he came up with the less intense Solare, and both were huge hits. Soon enough, half of Fort Kennings was hooked on either, or both, from the poorest to the richest; which meant it was little trouble for him to find people to pull off whatever he wanted done for one more hit. He got together three old friends-- Nick included-- as planners.
The drug-fueled masses were, in essence, an army of berserkers, and the tactics and planning of the five at the top ensured a string of successful operations. Then Old Johnny died. There were lots of theories; Nick subscribed to the most popular one, that the Ion Brigade that did it, given the specific pattern of burn marks, but it was too late to check the energy signature of the gun that did Johnny in, so there was no way to be sure.
Too late for a lot of things, Nick thought as he ducked into the cereal aisle, barely avoiding the blast of the grenade. He dropped to the floor and yanked the shotgun out of the third Blaster Hood's cold hands, then snuck back up to the bakery before jumping out and shooting the fourth one in the face, jumping back to avoid one last explosion that luckily didn't happen. He scooped up the remaining two grenades from the corpse and scowled.
It was too late for Nick to quit, at the time. Five years was the minimum period that would qualify as vagrancy; he'd been in the Slashers for seven when Johnny bit the dust. Thus, applying for a job was out, as he'd be arrested; turning himself in, while admirable, would get him arrested; and joining another gang was a very risky proposition, as nobody could ever really trust him to be loyal, something which he couldn't very well fault them for; besides, the same situation would surely crop up with them, eventually. Any road he took led to being caught, and given that this stupid goddamn game show had been determined cheaper than actually having prisons, any road led to his probable death to boot.
In fact, his death was almost certain. The firefight with the Hoods had gotten him wounded, and he was bleeding considerably. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an Ion Brigadier walking outside.
Those bastards got me trapped in this life. If I stay holed up like this, I'll just bleed out, and I'll never get payback. Time to go on the offensive.
---------------------------------------------------
Something that Gang Warfare hadn't done for three seasons was tell the viewers something the contestants didn't know; for the most part, all the commentary was irrelevant to any given maneuver's success. However, Jim K. decided that now was the time to say something to the viewers at home, but not over the P.A.
"Now, see that guy in the green jacket coming up? Astute viewers will notice that he's actually Nick, a Calrissian Street Slasher. Couple of those wounds were self-inflicted; though what he's planning to do by infiltrating the enemy's base is anyone's guess--"
The disguised Slasher snuck into the very corner of the warehouse they were currently holed up in. Twenty-six members of the Ion Brigade, all clustered in one place. He pressed down on the grenades in his pocket for five seconds; they began dutifully beeping, to inform him they were now live. He slowly walked to the center of the stronghold, and dropped them on the ground. Then he ran.
Five. Four. Three. Two...
A massive blast engulfed the bunker, killing fifteen people instantly and severely injuring the remaining eleven; in addition, the inventory flung every which way managed to crush three who were patrolling for intruders.
"Amazing! That suicide play, by the way, has taken all but fourteen of the Ion Brigade out of the game, and there's not any signal from Nick's tracker whatsoever, nor any visible remains-- folks, I think we have a complete vaporization!"
Nobody seemed to notice that despite Nick being on the outskirts of the blast radius, he was the only victim that left no trace upon death.
Description: Slightly below-average height, and about twenty pounds underweight. Wears sunglasses, a light blue jacket, dark blue gloves and combat boots, and a gray jumpsuit. Blond, unkempt hair, cut just short enough that it doesn't fall over his eyes.
Is cynical and paranoid, often depressed. Is willing to do anything, to anyone, to keep afloat, but feels a crushing sense of regret nearly any time he does so.
Items/Abilities: Has a sawed-off shotgun, a lead pipe, and a pistol. Is of somewhat above-average intelligence.